


The City By The Sea

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Series: A Stitch In Time [11]
Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman, Legacy of Kain
Genre: Gen, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I was once a Sarafan, Anani. A most righteous fiend indeed--a warrior-priest so talented in spilling blood that I aided in the near-extinction of the vampire race. In my travels, I came face-to-face with my human self, brazen and murderous. Which makes me wonder if that callow soul indeed can be the same as my own, immutable and inviolate. Or has it has been twisted all out of recognition; changed and shaped by the hands of others?" </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The City By The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of background explanation: this was originally written for a long-running crossover RPG called Multiverse Haven (now sadly defunct). The basic premise of the game was that characters had been pulled from multiple worlds and marked as Chosen, in order to eventually restore a dying multiverse. The main storyline takes place in Nosgoth, however there may be occasional references to characters, magic systems and some borrowed vampire terminology from other canon sources.
> 
> Fair Warning: these are feudal-era vampires, who survive by hunting/taking what they need, and who have also been corrupted by the Taint. There may be references and/or scenes of fairly brutal treatment of humans as slaves/livestock. Such is life in a world where vampires rule ...

The chamber was large, irregularly circular, and carved from coral. Anani glanced to Raziel, who was still in conversation with Goran, then nodded shortly to the attending Ancient. "This will do," he said.

The Razielim had reached New Avalon by shortly after midnight. The Hylden road had turned north, following the treeline, and the Razielim were forced to abandon it for packed, pale sand. Some of the larger limestone upthrusts were old and tumbled, others were newer. Many had been hollowed out and were now inhabited -- by humans, from the scent.

But those dwellings no more than aped the construction of the central spire. A half mile in circumference, the lower levels were a honeycomb of chambers and hallways, linked by broad stairs, all carved from the sharp sea-stone; the shells of small animals and bivalves were yet wedged into crevices and crannies. Every surface was covered with art -- patterns and figures emerging from the rock. Unlike in the capital city, however, there was little wood in use here -- there was too much moisture. The walls were slick with the humidity of the sea, and a soft faintly-phosphorescent moss grew thick. More disturbing, pools of water, some of them steaming with heat, were everywhere. Long, narrow reflecting ponds in open spaces magnified the moonlight; smaller circular ones bubbled in many of the chambers.

Higher levels of the spire would doubtless be dryer, but these could not be reached by foot, unless the Razielim chose to climb -- the only entrances were the massive circular windows that pierced the facade. The Ancients, welcoming and curious both, seemed bewildered when Raziel made it politely clear that he would not be taking one of those elevated chambers, but rather would remain with his men.

Simply ensuring that the Razielim were settled comfortably had taken hours. None of the chambers were large enough to house an entire brigade. Additionally, most were equipped with a single, large, freestanding platform which the Ancients utilized for sleep -- leaving little room for the activities which usually occupied a vampire's time -- as if they expected the Razielim to spend a large portion of their days napping together in tumbled piles. Units had to be split down into platoons in order to find suitable quarters. Though there were bloodfountains aplenty, they tended to be located near or in places of heated water -- the Ancients' human servants had to be marshalled to trot back and forth with goblets of the bloodfountains' strange, flat-tasting nourishment.

At least the Ancients understood the requirements of horses -- the stables were enclosed, quite dry and warm, and there was sufficient foodstuff for the animals. But the Ancients knew little of handling beasts such as these; their attempts at assistance, by and large, simply got in the way. And there were a great many of the blue-skinned vampires -- they outnumbered the Razielim now, were fascinated by the newcomers, and had very little understanding of their guests' desire for privacy... or decorum.

Anani paused as yet another urgent communique intruded. Two heavily armed female Ancients were evidently wandering through Tekoa's makeshift barracks when they'd noticed one soldier's particularly ornate, flanged sword. They'd appeared fascinated, had conversed excitedly in their tongue for a while, and at present appeared to be making threatening gestures towards the confused, and increasingly irate, Razielim. Anani paused, glanced to Raziel, who was yet deep in conversation.

Given what he knew and could surmise of the Ancients.... _They likely wish to spar,_ returned Anani, even as he strode to accept a pitcher and goblet from a young fledgling, whom he'd summoned to bring vitae. Raziel had not fed for most of a day, and then only lightly. Left to his own devices, Raziel would walk the camp until his armor rusted upon him. Anani sought out the thread of another mind. _Simeon. The second division has a translation problem. Can you assist? They should be billeted very nearby, to your north-west._ Upon receiving a swift affirmative, he deftly linked together the two minds -- Tekoa's a warm familiarity, Simeon's a steelier presence. _Explain that your men are overtired at present, and that you all desire rest. Alone._ Kain only knew what would happen if an Ancient were killed so early. While Anani little liked mewing up his kindred, the potential for disaster was simply too great.

Goran nodded in response to Raziel's own orders, clasped a hand over his heart, and turned on his heel to depart.

Anani arched an eyebrow at the sudden blessed silence. "My Lord?" he asked, pointedly lifting the carafe.

Raziel glanced at Anani, registering the offer--then nodded, pacing the width of the vaulted chamber to accept the filled goblet from his firstborn. It was obvious that the Ancients had not comprehended the numbers in which the Razielim would arrive; something that Raziel had made sure to express to Janos and certain of the Guardians, but which had apparently not made its way to the less rarefied ranks of their Ancient hosts. Add to that the fascination of the Ancients with the pale newcomer vampires, and the mutual incomprehension of said vampires' fear of water and disaste for the sun, and there were a great deal of ruffled feathers to be dealt with--literally, in certain situations.

His generals had been invaluable in ordering the clan, as had Anani--the Razielim's military structure had served them well when it became obvious that there was no one location that the clan could settle en masse. Even with their aid, however, there had been a great many ritual diplomacies and negotiations that had required the 'Divine Benefactor's' attentions. Only now had they found a moment of peace--one Raziel had a weary certainty was likely to be interrupted at any moment.

Lifting the goblet to his lips, Raziel inhaled the warm, living scent with gratitude, eyes slitting shut--then drank deeply, the vitae assuaging the Hunger that he had given himself no time to acknowledge. He lowered it with a sigh of pleasure. "My thanks, Anani. Are there any yet that remain without shelter?" The presence of so much water was also a concern, primarily for those few fledglings who could not be trusted to avoid it. In a way, however, the death-toll that their trials had taken aided them in this; the surviving fledges were few enough that he could safely leave that concern in the hands of their respective Sires.

"There are not," Anani said, which was true... to the point that this strange dwelling could be termed 'shelter'. It was surely not one the Razielim would have chosen upon their own. Even issues of simple security were difficult and complicated -- which reminded him of another item upon his indeterminable list of concerns. "I could not but notice, however, that the Ancients seem to have few dedicated lookouts." Which was putting it quite obliquely -- the Ancients had no perimeter at all, so far as could be seen. Humans wandered to and from their dwellings as they pleased, arrivals to the spire were announced by Ancients who simply happened to be in the sky. Petrus had twice requested permission to send men to hold their own guard postings. The problem therein was a diplomatic one -- it was most impolite for guests of one clan to superceede the security measures of their hosts.

Considering the nature of the appointments Raziel had made for this early morning... Anani refilled his Sire's goblet, then set the pitcher aside. There were no proper tables or benches on which to lay items in the high-ceilinged chamber, but rather a scattering of large, cubed blocks, with may well have been one of a piece with the floor, for they were of the same porous coralstone. Anani stepped close, and began unbuckling the heavy mantle of Raziel's pauldrons.

Raziel sighed at Anani's question, understanding the unspoken concerns behind it. "The Ancients ... they cannot conceive of the humans as a threat. They have already begun to push forward, to take lands emptied of Ancients and Hylden--yet the Ancients are no more concerned with this than they would a plague of rats that have begun to nibble upon their harvests." He shifted as Anani finished one buckle, lifting an arm and half-unfurling one wing to better allow the armor to be lifted away. "I have told some few what the humans will do in the centuries to come--how they will hunt us--and yet they still do not comprehend it."

Anani's clever talons made short work of the other buckles that held pauldrons and baldric in place, and Raziel shed them with an air of relief. To lounge in the enchanted-leathers and silks of Ancient make was a true luxury indeed after so long upon the battlefield, and Raziel was minded to enjoy it while he could. "We may not be able to convince the Ancients of their folly in this," he said thoughtfully. "Yet that does not mean we should bare our throats to an assassin's knife. Ensure that sentries are set upon those areas where the Razielim are quartered. I do not believe that the Ancients yet pose any threat to us beyond that of ignorance, but the same cannot be said for their servants--treat them as you would the cattle of another Clan." Which meant, in short, to ward against unwarranted intrusion, but no maiming or killing without explicit permission or provocation. Humans had oft been used as spies and saboteurs during inter-Clan rivalries; so while the Ancients might see fit to allow their pets to wander at will, the Razielim would not be so trusting.

Anani nodded, listening as his Sire mused aloud, looking for someplace to place the armor. The room was set up strangely -- though quite ornate with carved cornices and great arched windows, most familiar furniture was absent, including a proper armor stand. Which was of some importance, for Razielim heavy armor, unlike leather and silk, could rust in this dampness. Anani settled for placing the linked plates of armor instead upon a cube of stone near the window, hoping that better airflow might mean reduced dampness.

Raziel's solution was a good one, for it would prevent any modest attacks of opportunity. The lack of a proper perimeter yet disturbed Anani, but that would only aid the Razielim if a large force were to assault this tower -- a human kingdom or the like. Anani paused, struck by the realization that he did not actually know what kingdoms those might be -- his understanding of history was perforce immense, but even legends of this era were rare. He knew not if there were forces nearby, or large cities, nor their military capacities... "What of scouts and spies? Shall they be dispatched at a distance?" Anani asked. It was a circuitous means of inquiring as to how long the bulk of the Razielim would maintain residence in this strange structure. It would be one matter, of course, if the Razielim controlled the tower directly. But to abide here, as if supplicants....

Raziel shook his head. "Some scouts, perhaps, but none that range too far. This place is ill-suited for the Clan, and I do not think we shall remain longer than it takes to rest and resupply. I want none to be so far afield they risk being left behind in a strange land." He took another swallow from his goblet, more thoughtfully this time, his eyes upon Anani. "We cannot continue here as we would have in our time, with indiscriminate conquest. There are things in this land of which you do not yet know." He paused, and then said, more soberly. "And things of me."

Anani arched an eloquent eyebrow as he neatly folded the double-figured clan drape that clipped under Raziel's shed armor. "Indiscriminate, my Lord?" Anani asked, amusement tinging his tone, "Never have we conquered aught but the choicest prizes." Not, of course, that conquest nor even the lack thereof was the greatest of his concerns: two years ago, there was... very, very little he did not know of Raziel. Anani had attended his Sire for a millenia -- how could he not know him? And while it was clear Raziel had experienced much, he was here now, whole and where he belonged. How much could have changed, in all truth?

The scuff of a booted foot in the doorway announced the presence of another young vampire; Anani turned to take from him the small basin of alcohol he'd requested some time ago. He handed over the square of crimson fabric -- despite its thick-woven enchantments, the drape was still in need of cleaning and repair -- and nodded in dismissal. He placed the basin on the ledge of the window near Raziel, and dipped a soft piece of cloth. "How do you mean, Sire?" Anani asked, more somberly, as he reached for Raziel's free talons.

Instead of answering directly, Raziel took a more oblique approach. "Anani--you remember your life as a human, do you not?" The answer to that was one Raziel already possessed. Still, it served as an opening of sorts. Allowing Anani to take his hand, he watched his firstborn intently, gauging him. Anani's reactions would serve as a test--to see whether the Razielim could comprehend, and even accept, the truth about their Lord, about the taint within their blood--even about the Elder God. If they could not, then it could be that Raziel's hopes for change were destined to remain stillborn.

Anani's expression appeared puzzled, and perhaps a touch apprehensive. Raziel could well imagine him wondering why his Sire had decided to dredge up such ancient history. "Those human memories--how do you perceive them now? Do you regret your service to the Sarafan?"

Anani set to attending to Raziel's ablutions. Dust from the long travel had caked at the places the armor had just covered -- across the shoulders, and at the bend of joints. He paused to wring out the fabric; the scent of alcohol was sharp, pervasive. "I do recall those memories, albeit dimly," he said, wondering where this strange train of conversement might be leading. For a short time upon raising, he'd recalled actual details -- troops, plans -- but the ages had cast a hazed veil over all that. Now, it seemed he remembered only inconsequentials: a face, the scrollwork on a particular sword's hilt, a voice, and even these were distant, strange, as if a dream. He began to apply the fabric again, and this time it caught upon a nicked place, a chip out of the chitin of one of Raziel's talons. Anani bent to sort through a pack near his feet, and found the rasp file he wanted. "But 'twas not I who served the Sarafan. Verily, this body may have. But my soul, that which binds me here; these are yours, and ever will be."

"The soul ..." Raziel echoed, his voice strange and melancholy. "Perhaps all souls perforce have only one destined master, for good or for ill." He looked down at the talons that Anani had wiped clean, flexing them with a contemplative air.

"I was once a Sarafan, Anani. A most righteous fiend indeed--a warrior-priest so talented in spilling blood that I aided in the near-extinction of the vampire race. In my travels, I came face-to-face with my human self, brazen and murderous. Which makes me wonder if that callow soul indeed can be the same as my own, immutable and inviolate. Or has it has been twisted all out of recognition; changed and shaped by the hands of others?" By Kain, by Moebius, even by the Elder God--sometimes Raziel wondered if there truly was anything left of himself in the weapon that so many others had taken a hand in forging.

Anani recaptured his Sire's razored talons. The file was a heavy, deeply-grooved rectangle of steel, solidly forged -- even still, it had a crease down the center, where repeated use had worn the metal away. The steel grated over the nicked part of Raziel's hand with a rasping shush. "It surprises me not that your human incarnation was likewise a preeminent warrior," he said, "nor even that you, ah, possessed a certain... audacity. But the creature you encountered was not you, regardless of the physical similarities you might share."

Still, no Razielim could claim to actually have met their past, human selves. It must have been an... illuminating experience.

Anani checked the edge of Raziel's talon; the hiss as the sharp edges of their hands brushed was hardly less steely than the file. The nick was smaller, but still present. Anani reapplied the rasp. "As all Sires tell their spawn -- as you once told me, -- sins of the mortal flesh are forgiven upon rebirth." They had to be, for who amongst the Razielim had not sought to lift a blade against vampirekind as a mortal? "Would you now bear against me my own transgressions?" Anani asked levelly.

Raziel's answer was immediate. "Never, mine own. For I knew full well what you were when I chose you; and it has long been overshadowed by what you have become." He watched the file work upon the edge of his talon, his hands kept carefully still. "My mistakes, however, did not end with my human life. Only now does it seem I may have the chance to correct them."

He paused. "I have learned other things--walked both the past and future of Nosgoth. And I have learned ... that you may yet one day curse the moment of your rebirth. For there is a creeping taint in the blood of the Clans, springing from Kain himself--one that, over the centuries, will turn everything we might become into nothing more than nightmarish monstrosities."

Anani cocked his head, listening carefully. His immediate instinct was to protest that Raziel's maker too surely knew what Raziel had been, what he would become... but he was little inclined to mention the favorable light of any of Kain's deeds. And this newest revelation cemented that impulse. All vampires had some reservations upon entering evolution, even those who had experienced the state of change many times. There was no way of knowing if fate would strip away intellect, or twist the body -- if true, this news struck to the very heart of that fear. Slowly, he laid the rasp aside, and selected a fine-grained oilstone from his open pack. "You have seen this thing?" he asked, sharpening the now-smooth edge of Raziel's talon. "You have seen us, your clan, made monsters?"

Raziel looked away, towards the carved limestone walls instead. "No. ...when I travelled the lands of the Razielim, there was nothing. All of our Clan, from the greatest to the least, were gone, and scarcely one stone remained upon another." That desolate moment when he had known that all he had created was gone; that his bloodline was extinct ... it was hard to remember, even now.

"It is that knowledge that now gives me hope that this journey will merely be the fulfillment of destiny, instead of in defiance of it. I do not know what the Razielim's ending will be--and thus I hope to avert the oblivion that I once thought I saw." He paused, gathering his thoughts back into some sort of order. "But the taint is still there, regardless. I saw it in the other Clans--turning them into degenerate, foul and mindless creatures, little better than zombies. Even my brethren--Xephon, Dumah, the others--were twisted, changed into grossly misshapen beasts with an insatiable appetite for blood and cruelty." He could almost feel Anani's disbelief, even as he said the words. "I have carried the taint within me, Anani--and bequeathed it to you, and all of the Razielim. Just as my brothers did their own."

Anani was quiet a moment, considering. He could sense nothing amiss, nothing wrong -- and with his skills, should he not be capable of detecting this Taint? But Raziel seemed certain. "Then... the taint can be combatted, can it not? For I see no sign of a maleficient warping in you. And if you did not see us maimed and mindless, it is entirely possible we shall escape its depredations. Between the potence of our own sorcerors, and the aid of Ta..."

The younger vampire paused, registering a report from the guards stationed at Tarrant's quarters. The cold-aura Melchiahim had behaved oddly all throughout the travel and campaigns -- yet the man had been undeniably vital to nearly every operation. More than twenty elder Razielim owed him their lives directly; hundreds more presently lived due to Tarrant's effectiveness upon the field of battle. His mageries surpassed any of Anani's -- and quite likely those of Oberon, the Razielim's most skilled sorceror.

Yet Tarrant was infuriatingly brazen, ignoring or countermanding orders as he pleased, obeying summons when and where he chose. The fact that Raziel permitted such behavior was nothing less than confounding, which gave rise to a certain amount of... talk. With a sigh, Anani acknowledged the Whisper -- Tarrant was aware that Raziel had requested his presence this early morning, but had 'other business' for the next short while. "Is Tarrant aware of this Taint? What of the Ancients?"

"Such an optimist, my Anani." Raziel's expression softened slightly at his firstborn's insistence that they would prevail. Such blind faith ... he hoped he would be worthy of it. That all of them would be.

Noting Anani's slight distraction, though unknowing of its cause, Raziel said evenly, "Tarrant is aware. The Ancients ... are not. Regardless, I have no intention of allowing the Razielim to join the other Clans in madness in the centuries to come. I did not tell you all this, Anani, to torment you with knowledge of an enemy that cannot be fought. There is a cure; however, it demands a high price."

By right of precedence and loyalty, Anani should be the first to gain that cure, and be purified by the Reaver. And yet ...

Raziel had only healed two creatures of the taint Nosgoth's madness had inflicted upon them. One was Kain--a creature of massive power and the Guardian of Balance. The other had been Sanzo. While nominally human, his taint had been slight, and his own magic immense ... both of those things might well have aided in Raziel's attempt at purification. Raziel, however, had never tried to cleanse a lesser creature. Anani's strength was not in question--Raziel's control over the all-encompassing soul-hunger of the Reaver was. To lose his firstborn to the Reaver, his soul funneled to the Elder God ... no. Better to train his new ability upon lesser vampires.

"A price, my Lord?" Anani asked, "you must know you need but name it." Blood or magic or life itself -- there was nothing the Razielim would not give, upon Raziel's word. Every one of them owed Raziel their very creation, their existence. And if Raziel required all their lives now, to free himself of this curse... well, there might be opposition, but Anani could qwell that quickly enough.

Which brought to mind another matter -- a task as distasteful as it was needful. Anani hesitated a moment, then reached out and contacted Cyrus. The lamed vampire was one of his own line; he'd known the man for centuries, had been in attendance upon his fledgling, had watched with pride as he grew swift and very strong. But he understood Raziel's rationale, too; trusted his Sire's judgement. Even when it came to the sacrifice of his children.

Cyrus' acknowledgement was quiet, resigned, an echoing whisper.

"The price is already well-measured," Raziel said, oblivious to Anani's Whispered summons. "And I shall pay it when the time comes." Healing Sanzo had taken a staggering amount of strength. If each Razielim took the same toll ... it could well be centuries before his work was complete.

However, if there was one thing Raziel had, it was time.

"The price is exacted from my strength," he continued, withdrawing his talons from Anani's loosened grasp as the younger vampire finished with the oilstone, the edges now razor-keen. "The altars of the Ancients have scoured the taint from my soul, and granted me certain--abilities. It is ... difficult to explain." His convoluted, labyrinthine destiny--where could he even begin?

Anani frowned, taken aback by Raziel's words. Raziel was freed of this curse, yet concerned for his clan... though the danger might not touch them for many centuries? Even for vampires, that was a long time. "Thus... the Ancients will have knowledge of the taint, correct?" Anani asked slowly, for if they had built altars to combat it.... "Can we not simply force them to produce these artifacts now, and make use of them ourselves?"

"Not quite. The Ancients have built them in accordance to prophecy, but their artifacts and altars were not--" Raziel stopped short. "Their altars. The spirit forges--Anani, you may have the right of it. There is immense power there ... if I can tap into it again, and use it, then perhaps ...." He tapped talons upon the limestone block, thinking. There was no way to know which of the spirit forges had been completed--but even so, it still afforded them hope. The only drawback would be if using the altars thus would drain them, leaving them unable to function as they must in the far reaches of the future. He did not know who were the architects of the forges , but surely Janos ...

From outside, there was the scrape of a limping footstep. Cyrus entered, his shoulders determinedly straight, his face strangely blank.

Anani studied his Sire a moment. _We shall speak on this further_ , he Whispered, even as he collected Raziel's empty goblet and the basin of alcohol. He little beliked the necessity of interrupting Raziel's contemplations, but there was a great deal to discuss, particularly if this 'cure' required much of Raziel. The Razielim were many thousands, and Raziel but one!

But now was assuredly not the time -- not when the threat was far in the distant future. Cyrus had waited with his burden long enough. Anani bowed slightly, and turned to leave. Cyrus' eyes followed him. Though he tried to keep his focus on Raziel alone, he could not help that brief flash of hope, the thought that perhaps his Grandsire had interceded on his behalf.

Cyrus was dressed simply, plainly, in leather breeches -- newly repaired -- and a plain white tunic, a little threadbare. He'd had the opportunity, during that long march, to distribute his personal armor and other few belongings to his companions as he chose, and for that, he was grateful. Though the Ancients had made motions as if offering to carry Cyrus once more, he had refused. Cyrus would not leave his company, not when there was so little time left.

Anani passed him without word or touch.

Raziel lifted his head at Cyrus' entrance, frowning a little at the interruption. Then he remembered he had ordered the younger vampire to present himself, and his expression cleared.

"Cyrus."

As he was addressed, Cyrus sank down onto one knee with pained care, refusing to show what it cost him. Bowing his head, he said, "As you commanded, my lord." Every muscle in his body was rigid, the skin over his neck and shoulders too tight in the imminence of his death.

"How long has it been since your injury, Cyrus?" It had been several months at least, Raziel thought.

The roughness of the floor seemed absurdly clear to Cyrus' vision -- the fine cracks in the coral limestone, the faint opalescence, pale reds and blues twisting through, as if the surface were part transparent. Every detail was picked out with urgency, and Cyrus wondered if this would be the last thing he would see. Far better to fall in battle, beside his shieldmate -- the crimson-gory memories of war were a balm now, and he focused upon them as well as he was able. At least he could die *remembering* combat.

"A hundred and... eighteen days, my lord," Cyrus said, and his voice was a little rough; his mouth was so very dry. He'd been keeping track of the time, yes, but having to say it out loud... made it real.

"The Hylden magic has twisted deep, I see--and that fool of a fledgling's antics have done little to grant you respite," Raziel said, frowning. Even in his distraction, he noticed the odd tenor to Cyrus' voice, the tension in the words. Tilting his head, he fixed his full attention upon the younger vampire.

Unaware of Cyrus' misgivings, he continued. "At this rate, you will be unfit for battle for the span of a year or more." The bowed head before him jerked slightly, as if Cyrus would protest--but he remained silent. "I am not minded to waste the Clan's limited resources thus." Cyrus' tentative rapport with the Ancients alone was of great value, even if one discounted the warrior's martial prowess. "I would see you whole, Cyrus--and I believe that between Tarrant's ability and mine own, we can accomplish it."

Raziel sat straight and still, as if he sat upon a throne of judgment rather than a simple limestone block. "I will give you no untruths, Cyrus. Such a healing is fraught with danger, should it go awry. Thus I grant you the right to refuse this boon, and continue as you are." Cyrus would heal--slowly and painfully, but he would heal, despite Raziel's impatient wish to see him whole, both physically and spiritually.

At first, Raziel's words offered no cause for hope, and Cyrus concentrated simply on holding himself as still as possible. He was aware already that he would be a waste of the clan's resources for the year -- or years -- it took him to heal; why would his clanlord explicate his reasons thusly? Particularly to Cyrus?

And then Raziel stated what he meant to do. For a long, singular moment, Cyrus could scarce comprehend it. He... he was not to be slain? He could not be certain he had heard rightly; did not care. Cyrus drew a breath, he would not call it a gasp, and it caught in his throat. Cyrus stilled himself quickly, biting down on the flood of words -- you would... it is possible to... you do not intend... --- that threatened to burst from between his teeth. His talons carved grooves in the stone. "I would accept this boon and attendant risk gladly, my Lord -- if you will it." His voice seemed strange to him, as if distant.

"I do," Raziel said, pleased. For a moment he had been uncertain of Cyrus; the younger vampire had seemed ... overawed by his clanlord's attention. But the swift acceptance, irregardless of the risk, was a great deal more appropriate the warrior he knew Cyrus to be.

"Rise," he said, waving a hand at another block. He had initially thought to perform the healing here and now; but with Tarrant playing his usual games, and the new possibilities granted by the spirit-forges .... things had changed. "Tarrant will be here shortly enough."

 _Ludovic,_ he Whispered. _Find an Ancient, and ask them if any elemental forges or fonts have been built for this place. If so, I require their location. They will know of what you speak._

 _At once, Lord,_ came Ludovic's reply.

As Cyrus attempted to stand, he felt momentarily... lightheaded; the room seemed to tilt alarmingly. Which was strange, for he did not think it even possible for his kind to suffer such weakness -- not beyond mortal death, anyway. His chest both ached and felt feather-light, and he knew not why.

But when he at last looked up, saw Raziel's coldly distant expression, registered those last few words, he understood. Cyrus fell heavily back to his injured knee. His wince was subsumed in a growl of anger; for he knew of Tarrant's appetites, as well as did any in the Razielim rank and file. He knew, too, of the results of the Neocount's games; knew them in the twisted and mishapen carcasses left of his kills. Submit before Raziel though Cyrus would, this was an intolerable affront -- even for such as he. "Wha... Tarrant? If you would have me dead, I beg you do the deed yourself, not leave it to the hands of some foreign Lieutenant."

It was then that Tarrant came to them, in a flurry of flapping wings-- a great, malevolent darkness full of mad red eyes and seething hunger; would it ever be sated? Before it might even alight, in less than an eyeblink, a slender form stood in its place, marble and gold and, next to the others, fragile-seeming by comparison.

Fastidiously, he swept dust from his sleeves, though there was none.

"You believe I intend to kill you?" Raziel said, taken aback by Cyrus' unexpected accusation. Tarrant's entrance provided only a brief respite, dramatic as it was. Giving the otherworldly vampire a cool nod of acknowledgment, Raziel turned his attention back to the vampire before him. "I have offered you the chance to be healed of your afflictions ... and you think it a mere subterfuge, intended to sate Tarrant's appetites?" His voice dropped, a rumbling growl underscoring his words. "You would accuse your Lord of treachery?"

The matter of Tarrant's assumed parentage he left aside--at least for the moment.

Cyrus' reaction to Tarrant's entrance was far more vehement. He gasped a cry of warning as that bird-like malevolence swept in, its great wings lapping, brushing against the coral pillars that supported the massive open window. The alien vampire's abilities were like unto none Cyrus had ever witnessed -- he had been dumbfounded the first time that great black mass swept onto the field of battle. In Tarrant's wake, even powerful demons were transmogrified into masses of trembling gore, so while Cyrus knew full well the vampire's effectiveness, he likewise knew how little care Tarrant had for the average Razielim. And he also knew the whyfor of that.

Raziel's words caught Cyrus half-risen, tensed as if for battle, ineffectual as attempt at attack -- or defense --might be. "I... no, my Lord! But... I..." he seemed unable to catch his tongue, to make sense of his confusion, as he had only moments before. For a long, tormentous day and night, he'd believed his death was at hand, had even understood its needfulness. "...my Sire... I presumed..."

Tarrant straightened the cuffs of his sleeves with casual disregard for the troubled little tableau before him, though the faintest of smiles curved his lovely mouth. He was aware of Cyrus' fear, oh yes.

It tasted so sweet, so very sweet indeed!

But he didn't deign to remark upon it. There were subtler pleasures here.

"What, precisely, did you presume?" The words were cold, and cracked like a whip into the silence left by Cyrus' stumbling words. Raziel was not used to having his motives questioned, especially by his own Clan!

Waiting for Cyrus' answer, he was utterly still in a way that only the undead could achieve, until he seemed nothing more than a dark-veined statue. Only his gaze, intent and falcon-amber, belied Raziel's stony mask.

Cyrus swallowed heavily. The fear Tarrant could taste was a multilayered thing, flavored by the strengths and trials of centuries, tinted by the refinements and the deep-fissured flaws of a mind and soul that had seen ages pass like summer showers.

Slowly, the Razielim sank back to one knee. It hurt -- far more than physically -- to offer up this obeisance, for Tarrant stood calmly, tauntingly, so close to Raziel that Cyrus could scarce bow before his Lord without also bending before the other Lieutenant. Such games were common, and their stakes nothing less than life itself, among the rarified ranks of Kain's own spawn; or so Cyrus had heard. He'd never imagined he would be caught in the center of one of them.

Cyrus' confusion seemed only to grow -- had Raziel's words been circuitous? Had he but implied the offer of healing? What did Tarrant's involvement truly mean? Cyrus knew only that the lieutenant wrought horrors, and that his own Sire, Oberon, had extensive dealings with him.... But this he did know, beyond any doubt -- "At any other time, my... circumstances would have merited my death twice over." Not the injuries themselves in particular, but the situation. The Razielim were deep in hostile territories -- had been for months. There was no way of sending Cyrus safely back to the haven of a fortress. If he stayed with the army, he slowed them, and presented a soft target. Others in his unit were distracted with the need to assist him. And Cyrus' Sire was... unlikely to speak for him. Raziel had slain other wounded, in circumstances little different from Cyrus' own, before. All understood the necessity. "I presumed the same held true now. My... my apologies, my Lord."

Raziel throttled back his anger and his offended pride; forcing himself to consider Cyrus' words. That the younger vampire believed them to be honest, he had little doubt--there was too much resigned pain, too much confusion for them to be lies.

And, truth be told, what cause had he given to allow Cyrus to believe otherwise? Given his age and his standing, Cyrus was hardly privy to the councils of the Razielim elders, much less Raziel's own. He had spoken truth, in that his injuries could well have meant death, in other times--times when the Clan had been whole and prosperous, and could afford such a loss, or even before Raziel had learned about what awaited a vampire who fell into the Underworld, regardless of whether their death came by his hand or another .... No, Cyrus had been given good reason to fear his death, if for no other reason than by Raziel's silence.

Raziel did not apologize for this; it was not his way.

"Cyrus--consider this. I have returned to a clan halved in number, and scattered to the winds. We have suffered further losses in battle against the Hylden since, as you well know. I have done all this--gathered the Clan together, waged war upon the Hylden, and taken you from the Empire--for no other reason than to ensure your survival." The icy anger that had been so evident before was now gone. "The Clan must survive, or all this will be for naught. You are an able warrior, and have proved your worth to the Razielim, Cyrus. Were it not so, I would have granted Oberon the right to destroy you long since." Cyrus needed no reminder of his Sire's disdain, Raziel knew--however, it was now obvious that the warrior had badly mistaken his own worth.

"Your nascent rapport with the Ancients is something that may also be of great value to the Clan," Raziel continued. "Thus, I have offered you the chance to be healed of your afflictions--a boon that does not come without cost to both myself and Tarrant."

 _Such forbearance,_ whispered the Neocount in a very quiet corner of Raziel's brain; even the touch of his mind was like ice. _Such... compassion. Is this strength, do you think, or weakness?_ His mockery could be felt along the link between them, but also... thoughtfulness? Were these new, very human qualities -- frailties? -- responsible for some of the unrest among the younger vampires? Would they lead to more? His musings were transparent enough that even an inquiring tendril of thought from Raziel could lay them bare.

Raziel read those thoughts easily, as Tarrant had no doubt intended. _Perhaps,_ came the cool reply, Raziel well practiced in the ability to hold a Whispered conversation without appearing to divide his attention outwardly. _I have changed--I know that well._ Who knew what the Ancients' forges had done to him? Or Haven? What did 'purification' even truly mean to a creature like himself? _There may be those who account those changes weakness. If so, I shall deal with them when the time comes. We all must change, if we are to have a chance of survival--and of becoming more than what I have seen._ Memories of brutish, misshapen Dumahim, shambling Melchiahim, predatory and spiderlike Xephonim ... all flashed between them in an instant, Raziel concealing nothing.

 _Evolution._ Tarrant placed great emphasis upon this word; his approval was like honeyed snow trickling over Raziel's psyche.

Before Raziel's explanation, Cyrus bowed his head, noticing not his Lord's swift, silent exchange. Hope was a treacherously frail thing, yet how swift it was to blossom anew! And yet, was he was still to be delivered into the hands of another lieutenant? No matter that the vampire was presently an ally; Cyrus had watched such partnerships between the brethren wax and wane a hundred times over the centuries. And many were the times when members of lesser clans were employed as bargaining chips, to be given unto the delectation of the greater. Which of these Tarrant was -- whether his clan and kindred had surpassed even the might of the Razielim, Cyrus had no means of knowing. It would, of course, be... impolitic to ask. To put it mildly.

Cyrus spoke hesitantly. "I... I believe I understand, my Lord. Will you be present, that you mi..." a realization cut him off, made him look up. "...A cost to yourself, Master?"

A second strand of communication, this one dryer and shallow, intruded on Raziel's consciousness. _My Lord,_ Ludovic Whispered, _The Ancients know of these elemental forges. They claim to have... two, I believe._ There was some hesitation there, for the translation had been problematic. _They are presently leading me towards the center of the spire, here._ An image came into view, clear and crisp, of the interior of one of the radial hallways that cross-sectioned the tower's base. There where the hallways met was a hollow shaft some fifty feet across, up which damp air ghosted. Sky was visible above, but only as a pinprick of light. Leaning over the edge, Ludovic gazed down sheer walls to something like an altar, far below. It would be a perilous climb down -- for those Razielim who had not mastered the art of partial levitation, in any case.

 _Very good,_ came Raziel's reply. _Hold there; we shall join you shortly._ Ludovic's eyes, keen as they were, could not tell him what elemental affinity the altar held. They would have to discover that for themselves; he hoped for Tarrant's sake that it was neither fire nor light.

To Cyrus' half-asked question, he answered aloud, "Yes. There is a price--though it is one I hope may be ameliorated through the power of the Ancients." It was an inadequate answer, he knew, and only deepened the doubts he could see upon the younger vampire's countenance. But he could find no better words for what he intended; no explanation that would encompass the undertaking before them--that he would devour Cyrus' soul, and in so doing, purify and return it to its owner. Even Anani had not understood the depth of the taint within; it was ... inconceivable, in the most literal sense.

Cyrus shifted a little in unease, perhaps reading in Raziel's reticence a hint of foreboding. There were few dangers in all the wide world that seemed to concern Raziel so -- Kain, perhaps, or rain over fledglings -- but certainly no mortal matter could perturb him like this. Yet Cyrus was in no position to question his Lord's wisdom -- not again, in any case.

It was a surprise to realize, assuming Cyrus understood aright, that Raziel considered the Ancients vital to their cause now. They seemed to Cyrus a soft people for all their abilities, more given to conversement and ritual -- and untoward attentions -- than to the arts of martial prowess. Still, if Cyrus' association with them had aught to do with Raziel's favor now, perhaps it would behoove him to seek the winged vampires out more frequently. Cyrus rose, only a little unsteadily, as Raziel stood and then gestured him up, responding to some unheard information.

Cyrus was shamed to realize, as he fell in behind his clanlord, that he could not keep Raziel's pace, despite his best efforts.

They moved through the corridors in silence, Raziel in the lead, following the thread of Ludovic's mind. The Ancients they met in the shining limestone halls bowed with no small amount of reverence--but perhaps sensing the grim aura of purpose in the face of their 'Divine Benefactor', did not attempt to join or converse with them. Cyrus, uncomfortably aware of the Ancients' eyes upon them as they passed, soft murmurings in the Ancient tongue audible to his uncomprehending ears, struggled even harder to keep pace with his elders, ashamed of his weakness.

The forge was deep within the limestone keep, carved out of the bedrock that lay beneath the pebbled soil. Ludovic bowed briefly as they approached, fist over his chest, and the Ancients who waited with him, some in ornate ceremonial robes, did likewise. "I believe this is what you seek, my lord," he said formally, too experienced to let his curiosity over the presence of Cyrus and Tarrant to show. "The Ancients have offered it to your use." He motioned, and an Ancient stepped forward; slight in comparison to the Razielim, as most ancients were, he also seemed older than most, the darkness of his feathers silvered by age at the edges, his hair a paler hue than that of his brethren. He wore ruddy robes, inlaid with symbols so intertwined that they created an elaborate tabard-like pattern in gold upon the front sweep of the silken cloth. "This is Zedek, the ... priest? Of their altar." Once again the human tongue had proved inadequate for their purposes, and Ludovic, scholar that he was, hoped that he soon would have a chance to learn the Ancient tongue for himself.

Raziel inclined his head slightly in greeting. "My thanks for your generosity, Zedek. I intend to tap the power contained within this forge, if such a thing can be done without causing harm to the altar."

The Ancients around Ludovic seemed no less curious and alert than he; they copied the Razielim's gesture of homage carefully, though at least two were clasping the wrong fist over their chests. The additional bulk of flight muscles through their torsos also modified the salute -- the Ancients tended to place their hands over the center of their chests, not their hearts. But they were trying. So to speak.

Zedek inclined his head calmly. "It will be educational to see the forges put to their ultimate purpose, and doing so will not harm them," he said. "Much has been spoken of the ways in which you will someday utilize them, though I must admit it seemed absurd to expect anyone to do so with neither training nor direction... but I digress. Do you wish to descend to the level of the forges now?"

Tarrant refrained from speaking, content to let Raziel handle these affairs-- his attention was, instead, upon the power that had been offered to his fellow vampire to use.

He was clever enough to leave it alone, though. For now.

"We do," Raziel confirmed, letting none of his misgivings show. As enamored as the Ancients were of their perceived messiah, he still was not about to show weakness in front of them. "Cyrus is without wings; will you see him to the forges?"

"Of course, Divine Benefactor." Zadek turned, and made a small gesture to another, somewhat younger-seeming Ancient. The winged man stepped forward, and bowed before Cyrus, then laid tentative hands upon his waist. Cyrus stiffened, uncertain of the Ancient's motives, and Raziel switched to the tongue of the Empire.

"They will follow us and convey you to the level below," he said, allowing Cyrus no room to protest. Turning, Raziel unfurled his wings--there was a subtle shuffling in the room as curious Ancients jostled for a better view of the featherless pinions--and stepping upon the rim of the open well, dropped into the open air, spiralling downward as the air filled this wings and slowed his descent.

Ancients peered over the edge as Raziel descended, murmuring amongst themselves in their lilting language, but most made no move to follow. The Divine Benefactor was not the only center of attention -- as Tarrant stepped closer to the edge, he caught the attention of several watching Ancients, and unlike the Razielim, Tarrant was perfectly capable of understanding the tongue they used. "Is that one of Kadar's?" asked a young female, tilting her head. Her neighbor indicated that he believed Tarrant was. "Are you certain?" queried another. "I thought the Divine Benefactor actually arrived with a construction much like that one..."

Zedek and his attendant waited some few moments, then pushed off the edge, their wings held wide. Moist air lofted their wings full, keeping their descent slow and easy even in the confined space. Cyrus twisted his head as far as he dared -- how strange to see Raziel thusly, from above, in flight!

His first clear view of the Ancients'... forge? arrested his attention. It was a simple raised disk, perhaps three feet tall and an equal span across. It was quite plain -- one slightly-curved half was a rich green-brown, the other a deep blue, with a deep-seeming gouge or slot betwixt. There was something strange to the colors, an intensity, a trembling at the edges of Cyrus' vision when he looked indirectly at the stone. But around it, and all up the walls, was overlaid a massively complex mosaic. Hand-sized slabs of rough gold tiled the floor; great cut gemstones covered the walls like stained glass panels -- they seemed to depict thick trunks, or tendrils of some sort.

Against such ostentatiousness, the altar itself seemed almost plain. But as they touched down, the overwhelming sense was one of pressure, as if the weight of many eyes lay upon Cyrus.

Hitching a ride down was, of course, out of the question for Tarrant; he gave himself feathered wings, white and gold and gleaming, and soared down with them, the cold air swirling out with each wingbeat speeding his descent. He might well have become that black beast again, but he found controversy undesirable at that particular moment; best to keep everyone's attention upon that Forge!

Raziel landed neatly next to the central dais, and slowly turned, ignoring the others for the moment in order to take in his surroundings. This place was not one with which he was familiar, even allowing for the passing of the ages upon the various spirit forges and other holy places he had sought out during his journeys. The magic here, while not as overwhelmingly potent as that in the heart of a forge, was still palpable, the air shimmering with it above the central disk like a heat mirage.

Tarrant couldn't help but bask in those magical currents, nor could he restrain himself from following them to their source. Power called to power, and he was a dangerously curious man.

Pacing slowly about the dais, Raziel's lip curled, baring fangs in an involuntary snarl as he registered the writhing, abstracted limbs so lovingly worked upon the walls. There was no escaping the presence of the Elder God here, of course--if only in metaphor and not in fact. Turning away, he forced the snarl away, conscious of the others that had now landed.

"A glyph altar--one for both the elemental forces of water and stone. I have never before seen them combined thus," he murmured aloud, focusing his attentions back to what they had come for. At the center of the circle he could see the shadow of a deeper notch carved into the stone, almost invisible within the groove that bisected azure from emerald, very like a keyhole. As to the key ...

 _How should we progress in this?_ he asked Tarrant, steeling himself against the icy touch of the other vampire's mind. _Should the healing of the body take precedence, or that of the spirit?_ Each was likely to be a singular exercise. He could do little to assist Tarrant in reshaping Cyrus' damaged flesh ... and it seemed unlikely that Tarrant's abilities extended to cleansing the taint bestowed upon Cyrus at his creation.

"The body," Tarrant murmured aloud, dragging his attention away -- with visible reluctance -- from the Forge. He fixed his pale gaze on Cyrus. "I suggest that you lie down," he advised quietly, though not kindly. "This will undoubtedly hurt."

Cyrus shifted his weight uneasily as his ferrying Ancient released him, then folded his great-feathered wings and moved aside for Zedek to land lightly. Though the space around the... altar was quite large, the Ancients -- and Tarrant -- had enormous wingspans, and only one might land at a time. Cyrus' tunic ruffled against his skin, and for a moment he thought the breeze a result of all those stirring wings. Yet even after all the Ancients were settled upon the ground, the wind did not abate. A roughness underfoot caught Cyrus' attention, and he looked down... to find slits under his hooves, inscribed betwixt the golden tiles. Damp, earthy-smelling air gusted up from them, a ceaseless flow, and Cyrus was struck by a sudden foreboding -- what lay beneath this gilded surface? Abyssal caverns, fathomless depths? Was that water he heard, far below?

Tarrant's voice was smooth and sinuous and for a moment, Cyrus could scarce sort his meaning from his tone. Then he understood, and steeled himself. His eyes flicked to Raziel, then back to the too-perfect, golden-haired Lieutenant. "I... Lord Tarrant, I would remain standing, if my Lord permits," he said, carefully addressing the vampire appropriately to his presumed rank. It was a strange necessity -- as nearly as any could sense, the clanlord was little older than Cyrus himself!

Raziel's stern expression softened slightly with a hint of sardonic amusement. Cyrus' unease was almost palpable--as was his stubborn pride. Both of which were to his credit; Raziel had little use for any creature, much less one of his own, that blindly disregarded the danger that lay beneath Tarrant's elegant exterior. Or, for that matter, one spineless enough to cower before it. Cyrus' defiance, minor as it was, reminded Raziel again why he had chosen to preserve the younger vampire, regardless of Oberon's wishes.

"I see no harm in it," he said, knowing even so that Cyrus was not likely to remain upon his feet long once the healing had begun. Zadek and his assistant had moved off to one side, watching the tableau with keen interest; Raziel glanced at them, then turned his attention to Tarrant. _How do you wish to begin?_

Tarrant ungloved his hands, which were as slender and beautiful -- even fragile -- as every other part of him. He stepped toward Cyrus, and set one of them on the younger vampire's chest; it burned with terrible cold. The other fell to the hilt of his sword. "This would be better done," he murmured, "In my Tower." What was left of it after Raziel's ilk desecrated it, anyway. "Where the fae might best be manipulated... But this will have to do."

Without further preamble, he reached _in_. To the one subjected to it, it was like being speared with a stake of ice; raw coldfire ran through Cyrus' veins, his guts, his muscles, his bones, his skin. Like freezing maggots, power wormed its way through him, reweaving flesh into wholeness with sheer brute power. Nerves were not spared: pain was not dulled, for Tarrant could not truly heal.

There was no kindness in this act. Even as he healed Cyrus, it was upon Cyrus' agony, and his fear, that he fed. This was a convenience, merely a way to sate himself. And through the link between himself and Raziel, it could not be concealed. In this, Cyrus was no better than one of Tarrant's women; the outcome would only be that, in this case, the victim might survive.

Raziel stepped forward, reaching out swiftly to support Cyrus when it seemed the younger vampire would crumble underneath the onslaught of pain, his face drawn into a rictus of agony, golden eyes wide and staring. Cyrus was a warrior, veteran of a thousand battles, and yet still shuddered in his arms, muscles rigid and tremoring as Tarrant's magic ripped past armor, burrowing down to the very bone.

He knew that there was little he could do to blunt Cyrus' agony--but Raziel tried to Whisper nonetheless, releasing a fraction of his power to envelop the younger vampire's mind as he would one of his own fledges. _Listen to my voice, Cyrus. You can endure this ... you have lived centuries, and this is but a moment ..._

Raziel's support was timely, for Cyrus, already unsteady, overbalanced as his muscles spasmed taut and his vision hazed hot violet, a radiation from the touch at his chest. He could see nothing, could feel nothing but the agony, worse than the burn of water, and impossibly inside him, working from the bone out. There was nothing in his lungs and that was the only reason he did not cry out; it was as if the tissues had frozen solid, a gelid mass of bloody crystal. Raziel's mindtouch found desperation only, a psychic scream that more than made up for the physical lack.

Tarrant had performed this service often enough upon Razielim, which was well indeed, for it meant that he was not greatly surprised by the... stirring as his power burrowed deeper. It was a... kindred film of energy, a grease-thick corruption that beaded every particle of tissue, deep-interwoven, a lattice upon which unholy strengths were layered. Into the void left wherever Tarrant's destroying power passed it flooded anew, a maddeningly slippery, ungraspable essence, unending, core-deep.

And it sung subtle, siren temptations.

He knew how dangerous those temptations could be. Had he not followed such things all the way to their source?

 _There,_ Tarrant Whispered, when Cyrus' body had been rearranged to his satisfaction: fortunately, solely as it had been before he had been... damaged. _There. Do you see? I will not follow it..._ He shared his own Sight with Raziel, allowing the other vampire to See as he did. _I leave the rest to you._

Cyrus' taint was deep, a sickly malaise bound into the very heart of his soul; far deeper than Sanzo's taint had ever been, centuries-old. However, Raziel could no longer afford himself the opportunity for doubt.

He reached deeper, and summoned his power. The wraithblade flared to life upon his arm, tendrils burning bright as they writhed about his flesh, reaching outward for the younger vampire. The barriers between life and death thinned so easily here, and he could feel the siren call of the altar as it roused in answer to his own magic.

One step, two--and they stepped onto the border of the dais, onto the glyph altar itself, Raziel carrying Cyrus bodily over the edge. Brilliant light flared about them as the elemental affinities within ignited, echoing the call of the blade and the soul that had been created to unlock them. Almost floating within that primal surge of magic, Raziel sank himself deeper, reaching outward, enfolding all that Cyrus was--his mind, his soul, even his fading pain--into the cool lightning-sparked hunger of the Soul Reaver. _Blood of my blood ... give yourself to me, Cyrus._

The bystanding Ancients watched, Zadek with cool interest, as the Neocount completed his silent ritual and stepped back, as Raziel dragged the insensate vampire bodily towards the altar. The priest's eyes widened as Raziel stepped up onto the dais itself, and he lifted a hand, as if to protest.

And then the disk burst into life. Startled gasps and murmurs could be heard above as the watchers retreated from the lip of the well. The beam of shifting light, roped in streamers of malachite and teal, speared up, brilliant even in the light of early morning. It illuminated the whole of the tower, from the center outwards. The emergent ray was visible for miles in every direction.

Inside the column, though, no sound intruded. The coiling bands of energies were silent, even as they arced painlessly around and through flesh, leaving every place they touched oddly both sensitized and nervelessly heavy. For a moment, it seemed that only that stony sensation kept the pair of figures grounded; the air was buoyant, and humid.

Only just recovering from the pain, disconcerted and confused -- in part by a body that now, after so many months of injury, insisted that nothing at all was wrong save a sudden burning hunger -- Cyrus gasped, a shuddering spasm that was redoubled as the thickening fog stung his lungs. What -- where the -- an elder's three broad talons were dug into his armored skin, keeping him upright. Had there been a fight? Did they now flee a battlefield? Should he... Cyrus caught himself, tried to stand, to throw off the supporting grip, blind to the forces that were quietly severing from him his very self.

The world had fallen away; in the face of his unleashed Hunger, it was nothing but a passing illusion, imperfect and easily forgotten in favor of the soul that struggled before him. Subsumed within the heady influx of power as Raziel was, Cyrus's struggles seemed of no more concern than the bating of an angry falcon, pinned upon the huntsman's wrist. Raziel growled low, quelling the younger vampire's struggles by striking him downward, onto the altar's surface, talons cutting deeply into armored skin. The scent of Cyrus's blood rose, droplets sparking into azure flame as they touched the surface of the altar, and Raziel shuddered, his eyes lit into purest inhuman white as the wraithblade surged outward in desperate hunger.

Cyrus's soul was a fragile thing. Nothing like the cascade of power that was Kain; it was small, yet burned fiercely, stubbornly, enwebbed with a darkness embedded as a deep as a harness long outgrown, wearing its way into flesh and bone. And yet ... Raziel could feel the emptiness inside him, the need to devour that light, to sate his everpresent hunger, if only for a moment. He bent downward, splaying one taloned hand over that heaving chest. _Mine ...._

 _Do not lose yourself,_ Tarrant whispered, cold and quiet and exceedingly rational. _Nor Cyrus, to your baser instincts. I will give you blood and power if you must feed now._

Cyrus scarcely registered the strength abruptly pitted against him -- at their height of his talents, he was unable to match his clanlord for more than a few moments, and he was far from at his best now -- and his back hit the conjoined font hard. Fangs bared, Cyrus surged up, responding to the perceived threat, only to be slammed back down again. His great-grand-sire's Whisper echoed in his mind, a reverberation that filled him, paralyzed him. Hot blue gouts of energy rose from the altar, a trickle of his blood hissing into vapor and flame. Cyrus' chest ached with a sensation almost unknown to him, a gathering sense of loss, of yearning, so very deep, as his soul struggled on the verge of disassociation.

The sight of his clanlord, however, was... not calming. The light of the column of power cast Raziel in blue, as if his bones were illuminated through flesh worn thin. His golden eyes had been subsumed by a sun-hot radiance, as if his body no longer could contain what lay beneath. For an instant, Cyrus could do naught but gape at the apparition, Raziel's mindspeak ringing between his ears, an irresistible call to submission.

The icy touch of Tarrant's mind was a chill shock, rocking Raziel out of the single-mindedness of his hunger. He did not reply--*could* not reply, all words having fled under the torrent of power from the altar. Dimly, he could feel the reverberations of water and earth, the elemental affinities pulling at the Reaver; but it was not those mortal elements that he needed now, but that of the spirit ...

Shuddering under a new onrush of power, Raziel followed instincts he himself did not recognize and placed his right hand, wreathed in the coruscating flames of the wraithblade, over Cyrus' heart. The power stabbed deep, wrenching at the moorings of that soul as the younger vampire surched upward, his spine arching like a bow under the shock of it. At the same time, Raziel reached out, blindly grasping for the power around him, drawing it into himself, until the altar itself was a riptide, a blinding whirlpool of energies all drawn inward to sate the all-devouring void of the Soul Reaver--the heart of what Raziel had become.

Cyrus' soul was nothing but the merest spark in the midst of that torrent, easily lost with only a moment's inattention. But Cyrus was blood of his blood, power linked inextricably to Raziel's own--and with aching care Raziel used that tenuous thread, enfolding it in his darkness, devouring, reshaping, and in so doing, expunging every scrap of madness, scouring the taint from the younger vampire's spirit.

The power at Raziel's hand sank deeper than his spasming spawn, tapping into the great rivers of energies beneath, raising them from their course to thunder into that abyssal void. The nexus fueled a cleansing that otherwise would have drawn wholly from Raziel's own physical reserves. But even still, it was not easy -- certainly not for Cyrus.

Despite the consuming brightness, the furious luminescence of his clanlord's eyes and the roping power that speared his chest, regardless even of the electric spike of sensation through him, Cyrus' view grew dimmer, darkness eating at the edges. The sense of tearing loss overwhelmed any physical sensation. And then, suddenly, an instant of purest relief as his fragile soul, caught up in the scouring vortex, severed its last connections to the body it had inhabited for centuries. Then... nothing.

Eyes as blank as any zombie's, the body beneath Raziel lashed up at him, talons gouging at skin and armor indiscriminately. Fanged and ravaging mouth gaped wide; in Cyrus' visage there was nothing but violence, mindlessness, as he attacked.

A sudden, deep cracking drew concerned murmurs from above. A segment of highly-decorated, carved cornice slid itself from its mooring column, tumbled wildly. It hit the rim of one of the viewing circles far above, shattered. Limestone dust and shrapnel rained down.

Oblivious to both the chaos without and the violence which Cyrus's untenanted body offered him, Raziel did even attempt to defend himself. Talons tore into armored skin, rending wounds into flesh again and again as it healed, yet Raziel, blinded by power, did not so much as flinch.

It would be easy, so easy, to simply subsume the soul held within the bonds of the Reaver's power .... Cyrus' spirit flickered, fragile and helpless in the abyssal darkness. And yet ... Raziel could not condemn him to it.

With a wrench and a gutteral cry, he grasped that fragile weave, and buoyed upon the elemental power of the altar, pressed it within the younger vampire's body, joining the two together with his own magic as if Cyrus had truly been fledged anew. For an instant, he thought he had not succeeded, that the soul had been unable to withstand the power of the Soul Reaver--and then Cyrus convulsed beneath him, his mind blindly reaching out in terror and wonder for Raziel's own.

Those serrated talons spasmed against Raziel's flesh, blood tricklng in rivulets thick as winter sap, hissing incandescent gold as the still-rising waves of power burned the liquid away. Cyrus gasped painfully as vision returned, as the weight of a body settled around him once more, carrying with it overwhelming sensation. The weight of Cyrus' own clothing, the electricity sparking through his chest, the feel of muscle under his talons, air and heat and moisture across his skin... and the sight of Raziel, haloed by the towering pillar of radiance that surrounded them, marked by Cyrus' own mindless destruction, worn by the demands of the past few minutes. Cyrus lips moved, though no sound emerged. _Master...._

This time, the tower's shudder could be felt, a subtle vibration through the metal plates underfoot -- and then another, in time with the breakers that crashed against the foot of the coral ediface. His assistant shuffled nervously, looking about -- and Zedek, his face grim, lifted a hand, calling up a blueish bubble of force to surround them both. Catching sight of the Neocount, he gestured Tarrant closer. But he sought not to interfere with the Divine One's ritual.

Tarrant wordlessly obliged him, though his attention remained on the tableau before them.

Such power could not be sustained indefinitely, and the altar's radiance began to fade as Raziel loosened his grasp upon that flow. The outward rush was almost palpable, a tide of energy returning to the earth and sea from which it came, and Raziel felt like flotsam left in its wake, tossed and hollowed out at the core. His hand shook finely as he lifted it from Cyrus's chest, but his Whisper was dark and sure.

 _Welcome, Cyrus. The Clan awaits your return._

The tower creaked alarmingly -- a snapping rumble of stone splintering as the energies beneath it turned to their prior course. Even as the limestone dust floated down, the twisting bands of incandescence faded, retreated. The failing light illuminated each particle, and for a moment, it seemed as if the center of the edifice was aswarm with falling stars.

Cyrus' wordless awe and confusion were very like a new fledgling's, but the latter faded far more quickly, his soul rapidly becoming accustomed to its familiar earthly bonds. The white light that had filled Raziel's eyes was all but subsumed, but the powers Cyrus had seen... oh, those he could not soon forget! _My Dread Lord,_ Cyrus managed after a few moments, the words returning to him slowly, as so did the memories of his brethren. He began to draw a shuddering gasp as Raziel lifted his hand away, then regained control over the useless instinct to breathe.

As Raziel sat back on his heels, Cyrus' questing gaze could make out figures huddled nearby. The sight of Lord Tarrant reminded Cyrus of his infirmity, but when he stirred, there was no ache of ruined muscle. He... he was whole. "Wha..." Cyrus started, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Tarrant gave him nothing save a small, thin smile: Cyrus had been quite delicious.

Raziel began to push himself upward--only to stagger uncharacteristically as the ground seemed to dip underneath unsteady feet. He caught himself and straightened determinedly, glancing down to where Cyrus still lay in the halo of light. "Rise, Cyrus," he ordered, his gaze searching the younger vampire's body for infirmity, and finding none. There was no obvious signs of change, now that Cyrus was cleansed of the taint; not that Raziel truly expected there to be. _Does any weakness remain?_ he asked silently.

Still blinking in astonishment, Cyrus struggled to string words together. He drew up his knee -- the skin pulled a bit, perhaps, rough against the leather, though in the aftermath of Raziel's cleansing he could scarcely tell whether that was due to scars or to his exquisite sensitivity, his awareness of his own body. Perhaps it was that sensitivity that explained the chill that crawled down his spine -- Cyrus tore his gaze from the Neocount's.

 _I ... no, Master,_ Cyrus returned, the sending raw, more emotion than proper words. He jerked a little with the sundering crash as a chest-sized slab of polished malachite, part of the mural that lined the wall, detached and hit the ground. Cyrus made effort to sit up; it did not seem wise to tarry long. _Not in myself -- save for the hunger. What... what happened?_

"We might wish to relocate to somewhere a little less hazardous," Tarrant drawled from the sidelines, "Gentlemen? Certainly, the ceiling crashing down upon our heads and rendering all of our work moot _might_ be of some minor inconvenience."

Raziel raised an eyebrow at Tarrant's suggestion, but otherwise appeared unfazed at the tremorings and cracking of the building around them. There was a certain petty satisfaction in seeing the naive icons made to further the worship of the Elder God destroyed. However, it certainly would not please their hosts if their shrine were destroyed, however inadvertant that destruction had been.

Reaching downward, he grasped Cyrus' arm and pulled him roughly to his feet, not bothering with any appearances of politeness. They staggered together towards where the others were waiting, stepping off the altar as the ground shuddered like a restless dragon beneath them. The last of the energies dimmed as Raziel moved away from the altar's focal point, until only the residual azure and veridian glow of the place's latent magic remained.

Once they approached, Raziel gave Zedek a slight, apologetic bow. "I did not realize my tapping the altar would cause this destruction, I am afraid." None of the other altars had, after all--although admittedly, this time he had been putting it to somewhat different use.

Zedek's mouth was tight. Messiah Raziel might be, but such a scale of destruction! He had tended this altar for decades, and it might take just as long to repair the damage inflicted by wildly unleashed energies, if he ever could. "It appears that we shall have to ensure that the altars being placed for your future use do not also power other systems, Divine One," he managed, suppressing a wince as a chunk of ornate coral carving hit the golden-tiled floor with a shatter and clang, leaving a dent. "Might I venture to inquire what you accomplished?" Surely he had a right to know whyfor his work had been undone so.

Paler faces than those of the Ancients were peering over the edge of the chasm now, Cyrus noted dimly as he was dragged upright. He felt warm at the sight of them, his skin tingled with the sense of brotherhood, of cosanguination. But they appeared to be trying to garner his attention, arms lifted, mouths moving. Cyrus tried to wave back, discovered that one arm was trapped in an iron grip. That was fine -- he raised the other. Cyrus' brethren seemed not particularly interested.

 _...ord,_ Anani's mindspeak was crackling with remnant interferance, but the taste of his mind was as dark and coolly precise as ever. The tread of chill fear Raziel could sense might well have been an artifact of the thickly intervening energies. _...cannot...cont...ed. ...-quake. ...unsound... the plain surr.... A pause. Anc... ing... Vora...or?_

Raziel bridled instinctively at Zedek's tone--even if he had not intended such ill effects, he did not care to have his actions questioned so!--then forced it aside in order to better concentrate upon the situation at hand. He would have hardly been so restrained, if say, a Melchiahim had caused such destruction while claiming guest-right within Razielim territory.

"It was a matter of healing. This one--" he indicated the still-dazed Cyrus, "Had suffered not only physical infirmity, but an essential flaw within his spirit. The taint within threatened all that he was--thus, his spirit was purified." In this young and verdant age, untouched by the corruption of the Pillars, could such a thing even be believed?

"What can be done to rectify this?" he asked, frowning down at the subtle vibrations he could still feel beneath his booted feet. Raziel had learned how to activate the altars of the Ancients, true--but much as it rankled him to admit, the ancient murals and puzzle-maps that had been left for him to find were ... incomplete. They had told him nothing about the finer points of manipulating such-- Anani's Whisper, broken as it was, finally registered, and his gaze whipped upward, towards the lip of the well.

 _Vorador? What has transpired?_ Surely the old goblin--Raziel disregarded for the moment the fact that this age's Vorador was neither green nor old--had not plotted some trouble already?

Zedek's assistant frowned, as if he would protest -- there was no change he could sense, certainly! -- but stilled when the priest lifted a hand. He made no comment regarding Raziel's explanation. Perhaps he was accustomed to the inscrutable ways of the Divine. "The energies will realign of their own accord, and stabilize the tower as they do," Zedek explained, though he did not mention how long this would take. "I can take certain actions to speed..." to speed this process, he started to say, but trailed off as Raziel's attention was drawn abruptly elsewhere. Face carefully composed, Zedek folded his azure talons into the sleeves of his crimson robes.

There was no answer to Raziel's Whisper for a few moments, and it seemed as if the latent energies of the shrine had swallowed even Raziel's powerful call. Then the reply came, little clearer than before. _...ed am I to h... Sire. ...uman? ...abducted._

Tarrant's gaze found Raziel's, though he said nothing, and his expression was perfectly bland.

Abducted? Did Anani mean Vorador had been abducted--or that he had abducted someone else? If it had been the ancient creature that Raziel had known, albeit imperfectly, he would have guessed the latter ... but this living, human Vorador was more likely to have fallen prey to the former. And if that were so ....

... if it were so, then it presented Raziel with a nascent paradox. Vorador must live, to fulfill his destiny as a vampire. Yet if there was one thing Raziel had learned, it was that Time was not easily undone--not without the twinned Reavers to set the course events awry, at least. So if he interfered--would he be interfering with the destined course of events, or fulfilling it? It was a troubling thing to contemplate ....

In any case, Anani's news, whatever its outcome, would need to be considered carefully. _I will rejoin you shortly, once I am done here._ He turned back to Zedek. "My Clan seems ... disconcerted," Raziel remarked wryly. "You mentioned you could speed the alignment of these energies?" For if the Ancient knew how to manipulate the energies of the altar so precisely, Raziel would be a fool to disregard it.

Zedek nodded, seizing gladly upon the chance to direct the Divine One's efforts... elsewhere. *Anywhere* else. "I will attend to the matter," he said, "leaving you free to minister your Clan." He inclined his head, and his assistant brushed hesitantly past Tarrant, reaching to take Cyrus' free arm. At least the upflow of air in the shrine had not been disturbed; without that, the ascent in this tight space was difficult at best.

Cyrus blinked at the Ancient, eyes still wide with disoriented awe.

Tarrant took the form of that winged black... _thing_ , leapt into the air, and hovered nearby. Perhaps, this implied, it _really_ was time to go.

 _Before we wear out our welcome,_ his Whisper confirmed.

 _Somehow, I think we already have,_ Raziel remarked wryly. It was difficult to miss the priest's relief at seeing the 'Divine Benefactor' leave. He spread his wings, waiting until the Ancient had caught the updraft, rising upwards with Cyrus in his hands. Then he did the same, catching the artificial upward current of air with a practiced leap, circling around the altar in slow revolutions, beating his wings occasionally. The damage done to the elemental altar was even more evident from the air, and Raziel had to suppress an inward wince. To destroy something deliberately was one thing, and something he would hardly have concerned himself with. But this ... was tangible evidence of his overestimation of his own abilities. It ... rankled.

Inwardly, he resolved to address the matter with Ziliah, as soon as circumstance would permit. Tapping the altars obviously required a great deal more care than he currently knew how to employ. Touching down upon the lip of the well, he stepped forward, gaze sweeping over the crowd. Finding the eldest Razielim present, Raziel settled his attention upon him. "Report."

Tarrant mantled behind him, watchfully silent.

The ascent was relatively easy -- dust still sprinkled down, but the Ancients had erected one of their dome-like, half-transparent blue wards to seal the hollow shaft. Any large chunks of rubble were caught and held before they could endanger the crowd below.

Through this haze of pale dust, lit from below with flickering blue and framed by the star-shot seething darkness of Tarrant, Raziel seemed nothing short of demonic as he arose from the abyss. The sight gave even Nekoda pause -- then another tremor shook the ground under his feet, and he stepped forward, clasping a fist to his heart. "My Lord," he said, neither his relief nor his dismay entirely hidden, "much has happened in your absence...."

"So I understand." A quick glance at the Ancient ward that still protected them, and then Raziel began to make his way out of the chamber, away from the altar. "Tell me what you know, and I shall rely upon Anani for the next." A brief touch upon his eldest's mind was more than sufficient to give him Anani's location, even through the interference caused by the altar's disturbed magics. The remainder of the Razielim, uneasy yet obedient, fell in at his back as Raziel exited the central chamber.

Somehow, he did not think Nekoda's news was likely to please him. Yet ignorance served them just as ill here just as it ever had in the Empire. No, they would meet this threat, with eyes open and turned to the future; the Razielim would be pawns no more.


End file.
